


Three Hundred And Eighty-Nine

by clytemnestras



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Character Death (offscreen), Hopefully Not Cannon Compliant, M/M, PTSD John
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-22
Updated: 2014-04-22
Packaged: 2018-01-20 10:07:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,849
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1506563
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/clytemnestras/pseuds/clytemnestras
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It had been three hundred and eighty-nine days. (Since she had gone away)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Three Hundred And Eighty-Nine

**Author's Note:**

> http://sherlockbbc.livejournal.com/6152068.html?thread=41055620#t41055620
> 
> prompt:
> 
> "Post S3, Mary's gone. Whether she's dead, evil or they're just gone they're own ways, that's up to the author. Same for what happens to the baby. But as a form of closure, he looks at pictures/video of the wedding one last time. He's mainly focused on how happy he and Mary were, but then at the end he sees a funny little detail about one of the guests. 
> 
> In the spirit of moving on, he decides to re-view the pics/video/memories of the day and focus on the other people instead considering he had other things on his mind the day itself. So maybe little things about how Molly was still with Tom then and Lestrade seemed miserable, but now...etc. And of course, he notices Sherlock, and he finally sees how heartbroken he was, and how worried people seemed to be about him. And then maybe John finally gets a clue."
> 
> And I both did and didn't do what it asked. Hmm.
> 
> edit: i'm much less fond of this fic now, even though i've long since left the fandom i'm bitter about how mary was dealt with in s4 and have been ever since i found out so this fic leaves a bad taste in my mouth. i'm not going to delete it but i don't want much to do with it either

It had been three hundred and eighty-nine days. John could recall the number as easily and flatly as he could read the time off his watch; like crosses on the calendar that were cast off after the ink dried.

It was all very cold. Very Sherlock, really.

And that was funny because when Sherlock had left him the days had all sort of blurred together in nightmarish smog - there was gunfire and screaming and sweating and _Bart's Fucking Hospital_ was the worst warzone he thought he could face. This was so much more... hollow.

His finger hovered over the play button, not wholly convinced his heart could take the strain, but when his knee jerked in a small but shuddering flare of pain his thumb slipped and the video commenced.

And so it began.

They were laughing, swaying gently to music the camera didn't quite pick up and  overlayed  with the shuffling of chiffon and feet scuffing the floor. The banal between the majestic - that was probably a metaphor for something. And  _Christ_ ,  she was gorgeous, wasn't she? Radiating something gold (cold), bright (calm) and beautiful (deadly). Somewhere inside a dull pain throbbed, but it was nowhere he could reach. 

He stared blankly at the way her arms slotted into his, her head on his shoulder and the pale lights that flickered over them both. Her lips kept parting in that inimitable smile, flashing a shock of white teeth that could dazzle and stun the best of men (and probably some women) and a sigh rumbled deeply in John's chest. They were so close, bodies pushed so close together he could make  out the other couples behind and beside them and that - that's what he needed to focus on. The happy people that held him together, floating just slightly above misery with all that they cared.

It was there in the way Molly fawned over that - Tom, was it? (bugger, he was getting worse than Sherlock) - kissing his wounded hand and running fingers through his curls the way you'd soothe a baby -  _God no, don't_ -  the way  Anthea  - wait,  what?  - was smiling at the camera, checking her phone and sending cursory glances at a rather glum  Lestrade  like she was cataloguing him and  how in the bloody fuck did she get there?  It was there in the way Mrs Hudson was necking back Champaign and trying to make Sarah feel a bit less out of place. It was there in -

 -   _Sherlock_ __

Sherlock, who was hovering by the door even though his eyes were sewn to John in a melancholy mix of pride and longing. Sherlock, who wrote him a symphony and waded through painful attempts at teaching him to dance with grace and rhythm. Sherlock who vowed to protect him and whomever he loved for as long as his heart still beat.

Sherlock, who _died for him_   and  _killed for him_   without wasting breath.

Sherlock who was silently slipping from the reception, resigned and lonely to try and leave him to his happiness.

The pain in his chest tightened sharply, like organs and bones were mincing together just beneath his sternum and his hand shook so violently the remote slipped from his grasp and clattered to the floor. The video switched off as the batteries bounced out and hid under the sofa. 

He took a breath.

Another.

And another.

Calmly, he picked up the phone.

"Hello?"  He was answered by the second ring. Good.

"Sherlock?"  _Stupid question, John,_   mocked the baritone of the consulting detective he absolutely didn't keep in his head at all times. _ You know it's me, you're the one who phoned. Get to the point. _

"Yes, John?" Polite. Cautious. Words like glass.

"I need to see you. Now."  _ Breathe like a regular person for God's sake. _

"Good. Stick on the kettle, open the door, I'll be round in thirty seconds." The phone clicked off and slipped onto the sofa as John raced to the front door.

**

Three day stubble, bloodshot eyes; the definition of shit was all wrapped up in a  Belstaff  coat. _ You don't get to look worse than me this time. This is my pain, Sherlock, don't take this from me.  _

"You look shit."

"So do you, John. Tea?" He pushed John aside as he strode into the flat and there weren't really any words that John could make work. A thousand questions swam through him as the door slammed shut and he limped behind Sherlock - _just like old times_ -  toward the kitchen where three day old toast had taken residence and the kettle begged to be descaled but there wasn't really any point when he hadn't had tea in months.

And now it was boiling away, as though the months of neglect meant nothing, which felt very relevant to John when Sherlock was sat on his counter whistling 'Rule Britannia'. 

A beat.

A breath. 

\- maybe two. 

He tried to breathe through his exasperation, in through the nose, out through the mouth like all the headshrinkers babbled on about - and it helped exactly as much as he expected. So he gave up. "Sherlock how the fuck did you get here so fast?"

Never one to mince words, Sherlock didn't pause for breath. "I was outside,  Lestrade  and Mycroft demanded I keep an eye on you. Apparently my absence inspired a few very stupid ideas and since the... car  accident , you've been showing a few familiar signs... Well, we just can't have that, could we?" He turned away to drop a teabag in each cup. "Still take two sugars?"

"Yes. No. I think I'm out  - what, you were just sitting outside my house, watching me through the window?"

The kettle clicked off rather pronouncedly in the silence of the flat, and so did the splosh of water as it flooded the cups. The silence was both less and more comfortable than John had hoped for. He passed Sherlock the milk.

A stir, a squeeze and the passing of cups saw the two men sat in John's living room with nothing but an obnoxiously loud clock for company. 

Sherlock cleared his throat. "You called me, John. What did you want to say?"

_That's a bloody good question_.  What did he want to say, exactly? ' _I was watching you leave my wedding and tried to strangle my remote to death'_   just didn't have the right ring to it. "I miss you."

Sherlock blanched. "I didn't want to intrude. I - I - This wasn't my business. Mary was your wife, and I thought that if I kept trying to butt in you'd push me away..." His eyes fell to the floor and remained there for some time.

"You could have _tried_ , Sherlock. I needed you and where  where  you?"

"I was here everyday. Just not inside. I... I've been sat on the bench across the road for the last three hundred and eighty-nine days. I have managed to pluck up the courage to come inside a total of ten times and have made it to the door one hundred and nine. I know your routine by heart and every time you deviate from it I text to make sure you haven't done anything stupid. I've been here, John. I've been here the whole time."

The tea in his hand was getting cold and it tasted sour because the milk was off. "Sherlock, it's getting late."

"Yes, I suppose it is. Do you want me to go?"

_ Do you? _  "No. I... I don't know what I want."

"I see." He shifted in the arm chair, and it wasn't right, him sat there. The two of them sat in that dusty flat with ghosts sitting on  thier  shoulders as sympathy cards filled up the bins and flowers wilted on the mantel. This wasn't  thier  home, was it?

They both stood up and stared for a moment before Sherlock wrapped his arms around John and they crushed together. 

In retrospect, John must have been crying because he remembers the tearstains on Sherlock's shirt and there were things bleeding through the hollow numbness that were probably pain but might have been something else entirely. But that didn't matter when he was pressed against Sherlock's warm chest and - "She's dead. _ F- fuck _ . Everybody leaves, Sherlock."

Sherlock's cheek came to rest on John's head. "I won't", he whispered. "Never again, John, I promise."

They either came apart or fell apart, but John couldn't tell which as he looked up at Sherlock with blurry eyes. "Would you stay?"

"Of course, John. I just said -"

That was a smile, perhaps even a smothered laugh that managed to claim his mouth. "No, Sherlock. I mean stay here, tonight. I don't think I can handle another night alone."

Sherlock's mouth pulled into a thin line. "I'm not sure that's the best idea, John."

"For fuck sake Sherlock. My wife is dead. I'm alone and it fucking hurts, please, would it kill you to humour me?"  _ Stop saying my name like we're virtual strangers. You fucking know who I am. Let me in. _

"Are you sure? Are you sure this is what you want?"

He closed his eyes. "Yes, Sherlock."

"And I'll be sleeping on the sofa, yes?"

"Well... I don't want to wake up alone. Again. Do you think you could just lie there beside me like a warm, living human? Just see me through the night."

Sherlock sighed but turned and walked towards the bedroom. "Whatever you need from me."

*

John woke up screaming. Glass was shattering around him and tries screeched and horns bibbed and a cacophony of horror blared out. He was sat there beside her at first and then he was very far away, picking up a police phone call and neither was really worse than the other. His eyes wouldn't open, gasps clawing from his lungs as he twisted in pain from somewhere he couldn't find.

And then there were soothing words whispered lowly in his ear, arms slowly wrapping around his scarred torso and kisses pressed onto his neck.

"It's okay. It's over, you're safe John. I'm here."

If John remembered waking up he didn't remember falling back to sleep.   

He always forgot about the nightmares by morning, when the numbness set back in, though that night he felt a brief bloom of warmth that happened to linger.

He woke up with a body wrapped around his and didn't feel at all ready to face Day One. But he was getting closer, at least.

It was a long time before either got out of the bed, frightened to disrupt the calm. But Sherlock peeled his arms from John and started to get redressed. 

"Where're you going?" It was nice to not be solitary, or cold. 

"You're out of milk and sugar. Can't have tea without them, John. Do keep up." 

John coaxed a kiss out of Sherlock before he could leave, and Sherlock kissed him like it gave him breath.

He smiled. It was day three hundred and ninety, his wife was gone, his wedding ring was cold on his finger. John Watson was still numb, but not alone. That was a start. 


End file.
